


Is this Real Life? Or, Three Moments in Israfel's Happily Ever After

by fenellaevangela



Category: The Time of the Singing - Louise Blaydon
Genre: Domestic Fluff, M/M, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-18
Updated: 2017-12-18
Packaged: 2019-02-16 14:13:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13055634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fenellaevangela/pseuds/fenellaevangela
Summary: “They have breakfast together in the morning, make dinner together when they’re both done for the day, and everything’s so fucking perfect that sometimes Israfel thinks he must be dreaming.”- The Time of the Singing,pg. 177





	Is this Real Life? Or, Three Moments in Israfel's Happily Ever After

**Author's Note:**

  * For [brampersandon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/brampersandon/gifts).



> (Minor content warning in the end notes)

_One -_

The bathroom sink wasn’t working.

Nate had assured Israfel that there weren’t many minor plumbing problems that he couldn’t handle on his own and Israfel believed him; it was no great surprise to learn that Nate’s father had taught his sons the practical skills of household upkeep. But Nate had also had classes and homework and his shifts at work to worry about and before either man had realized it was two weeks later and the bathroom tap _still_ sputtered to a trickle at least once a day. Eventually Israfel decided that enough was enough and - wary that Nate would blame himself for the problem sitting for so long - waited until Nate had left for the day before calling their building’s superintendent. 

The man who showed up at the door was perhaps a few years older than Israfel and didn’t sound anything like the person he had spoken to on the phone, but he got right down to business and began scrutinizing the bathroom sink. Israfel watched curiously as he partially dismantled the tap.

Part way through the repair, the man glanced up at him. 

“You try fixing this yourself?” he asked. When Israfel replied in the negative, he went on. “And that young guy you live with, what about him?”

“Not this time,” Israfel admitted. “But he fixed a drip when we moved in.”

Nodding like that explained everything, the other man went back to fiddling with the tap. Just as he seemed to be putting it back together he spoke up again. “Are you and him – you know – together?” 

A sense of dread began to well up in Israfel’s chest; he and Nate had rarely encountered open bigotry since moving to San Diego and to have to face it in their own home, from someone they had to rely on for basic services . . . 

Israfel realized he had let his pause go on too long. Well, he wasn't about to hide. “Yes,” he said simply.

The other man hummed in acknowledgement, his tone flat and unreadable. Israfel braced himself for the worst, and was so prepared for the encounter to go south that the next comment almost seemed comical in comparison. 

“Well, you tell that handsome boy of yours to watch himself if he’s going to be fixing things up around here,” the man said, a small smile on his face. Israfel thought he saw amusement in his eyes. "I get it - trying to fix everything himself, showing off for his boyfriend - but best not bite off more than he can chew. See?" 

He then proceeded to point out several small mistakes Nate had probably made that had weakened the integrity of the tap. Thrown by the unexpected turn the conversation had taken, Israfel tried his best to follow the other man's points but he doubted he would remember the details later. Nonetheless he promised to pass the message along. 

A few minutes later, still pleasantly shocked, Israfel thanked that man for his advice and walked him out. It turned out the man was gay himself and confessed that he thought he saw a bit of his younger self in Nate's confident but imperfect work: a young queer man, newly out in the world, enthusiastic and eager to prove himself a valuable partner. Israfel wasn't so sure about the man's characterization of Nate but he found himself unexpectedly buoyed by the conversation anyway. There was something inherently pleasing about discussing Nate so casually with a stranger and - if Israfel was being completely honest - it was flattering to hear someone suggest he was worth Nate showing off for.

Smiling to himself, Israfel sat down at his computer, but he found it difficult to get to work. He was too busy figuring out how he was going to work ‘handsome boy’ into the conversation when Nate got home.

 

_Two -_

There was a small video rental place down the block from their apartment that was still eeking out enough business to keep its doors open. Whether this owed to a clever business model or the loyalty of the community, Israfel could say, but he and Nate liked to pop down once or twice a month and pick out a movie to watch on the evenings Israfel affectionately referred to as 'date night' but which Nate, who complained that that made them sound like an old married couple, insisted on calling 'movie night'. It was on just such an occasion, while Israfel was perusing the selection, when Nate leaned in to whisper conspiratorially into Israfel’s ear.

“Don’t look now, but I think Mary-Ann is watching us.”

“Her name is Liz,” responded Israfel automatically; Nate and his small town manners were really in no position to be casting stones regarding one’s rural roots showing, even if Liz’s pigtails were perhaps a bit too much. “And I’m sure she keeps an eye on all the customers.”

Nate shrugged. “Well, we aren’t the only ones in here right now and she hasn’t taken her eyes off of us.”

“Do you think she suspects us of something?” Israfel asked, surprised. They had never had trouble there before. He glanced up at the security mirror mounted in the corner of the ceiling and, sure enough, caught Liz’s gaze briefly before she looked away.

Nate only shrugged again in response, but Israfel had a feeling that his boyfriend had more of a theory than he was letting on. Sure enough, when they finally went to the counter with their selection – a mid-range action comedy from the previous year – Nate’s behaviour changed suspiciously. Nate never shied away from public affection, but the way he threw his arm over Israfel’s shoulder and called him ‘sweetheart’ while Liz scanned their movie through seemed abrupt. Then, just as they were about to pay, Nate's ploy appeared to have an effect.

“Oh!” Liz suddenly exclaimed. “Aren’t you getting any popcorn this time? You always get popcorn.”

Nate shook his head. “We got some of the microwave stuff at home. Buying in bulk is cheaper, you know? College ain’t cheap.”

“Oh! Well,” said Liz, grabbing a bag of the pre-popped cinema-style popcorn from behind the counter, “That’s not really the same, is it? Why don’t you have a bag on the house? You guys are such loyal customers.”

Glancing sideways at Nate, Israfel shook his head. "That really isn't necessary," he said.

"I insist!" said Liz, beaming, and she pressed the bag of popcorn into his hands. 

Nate thanked her and they finished their transaction. Israfel didn’t speak up again until they were out on the sidewalk on their way home.

“What was all that about?” he asked.

Nate smirked. “She thinks we’re _cute_ ,” he said. “Thought I’d see just how much ‘cute’ gets us.”

“That was unethical,” Israfel scolded.

“Aww, c’mon Raf. What harm is a little free junk food going to do?” Nate argued. “All the shit bigots pull every day, it’s nice to find someone who wants to do nice things for us.”

Israfel wasn’t completely convinced by Nate’s logic, but he couldn’t deny that there was something uplifting about the whole thing. Someone saw him and Nate – two men casually expressing their love for each other – and instead of feeling uncomfortable it caused them joy and inspired generosity. 

And Israfel really _did_ like that awful, salty popcorn.

 

_Three -_

Their kitchen table, like the rest of their apartment, was a shade too small when a third person was thrown into the mix. The round table usually sat wedged between the counter and the pantry, which left just enough room for two chairs so long as one person didn't mind getting up if the other had forgotten to bring out the peanut butter. This was Christmas dinner, though, and Tom hadn’t driven all the way down from Palo Alto to eat cranberry sauce and stuffing on a lumpy second-hand sofa; they were going to do this right. So they pulled the table into the middle of the room and three men squeezed in, their elbows only occasionally knocking, and Israfel said a quick grace before Nate reached across the short distance to the counter and began passing around the serving dishes.

As they piled their plates high with turkey and corn and roasted brussel sprouts Tom regaled them with stories from his first semester at college. Grabbing the last dish, Nate passed the mashed potatoes to Israfel without taking his eyes off his big little brother. He was laughing at a story about Tom’s roommate that Israfel had only half-heard, as distracted as he was by the sight of perfect joy on Nate’s face. Israfel was suddenly struck by a pang of affection so intense he felt his heart ache in his chest. It seemed impossible that this could be his life, or that he could be allowed to be so happy. 

How was it that a few short years ago he had been determined to live his life without even the possibility of this? How could he have gotten the world so wrong?

Israfel sent up a quick, silent prayer of thanks. And then he leaned over and kissed his boyfriend, ignoring Tom's playful yelp of faux indignation and the smear of potato he was getting on his elbow. In all of heaven and Earth there was nowhere else he’d rather be.

**Author's Note:**

> The story contains scenes where the characters are worried about encountering homophobia, but it doesn't come to pass.


End file.
